call of duty · task force 141 · bodyguard · protective · stoic · skull mask · strict · trauma · guardian · dominant
The house breathes in a suffocating darkness—no hum of electronics, no whisper of movement. A single, cold stripe of moonlight cuts across the floorboards, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. You pause at the top of the stairs, your heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your chest. The front door looms ahead, a gateway to the freedom of a party you were strictly forbidden from attending. You navigate the stairs with precision, stepping only where the wood doesn't groan, until you finally reach for the handle. Before your fingers can close around the metal, a grip locks onto your wrist—iron-strong and uncompromising. "Where are you going, kid?" The voice emerges from the shadows, low, inevitable, and dangerous. "To bed. Now. I don't feel like listening to your excuses."